Finally, I hit the number, and it rings through.
“Politia, Station Fifty-Three—what can I help you with?”
I draw in a lungful of air, but then I taste the dark magic at the back of my throat, and I have to fight another wave of nausea.
All I can manage are a few short words.
“There’s—there’s been another murder.”
I return to the residence hall an hour before daybreak, my body beyond exhausted.
I was questioned for hours, my familiar and I photographed and swabbed for blood and anything else we might’ve picked up from the crime scene while Politia officers scoured my room for additional evidence. My bedroom is still sealed off, but I’m in no rush to see or deal with the tainted blood all over my things.
I’m going to have to bless the shit out of it once I’m allowed to return.
I spend the first hours of the day crying in one of the shower stalls. Nero is in there with me, rubbing his head reassuringly against my leg. On any other day, I’d find this situation beyond fucking weird—my familiar and I taking a shower together to rinse off the blood and dark magic clinging to us.
Not today, however.
All I can focus on is the memory of that dead individual, their organs ripped out, their very blood infused with dark magic. I didn’t see the person’s face or the shimmer of their own lingering magic—assuming they had any to being with. Somehow, that lack of distinguishing features makes the whole thing worse. There’s no personhood to change my horror into grief or sympathy.
I lean my head against the wall of the shower, letting myself cry until I feel empty.
My hands shake as I grab one of the two towels a Politia officer grabbed for me earlier from my room. I wrap the towel around myself, then use the remaining one to wipe down my familiar.
My bones are weary. I ache in places that can’t be healed with ointment and a Band-Aid.
Once Nero and I are dry, we exit the communal bathroom. If there’s one silver lining from this whole shitty experience, it’s that I feel a deeper connection to my panther than ever before.
I guess trauma can do that.
Wearing only a towel, I head down to the second floor, where Sybil’s room is. Then I pause in front of her door, my hair still dripping. I glance down at Nero. My panther stares up at me. Maybe there’s something in my eyes, or maybe he can see my lower lip shaking—something it’s been doing on and off for several hours—but Nero rubs his head against my leg, then leans his body heavily against me.
I catch a sob in my throat and force it down at the show of protective affection from my normally distant familiar.
I run my hand down the side of his face and neck. Turning back to the door, I take a deep breath, and then I knock.
From the other side of the door, I hear Sybil groggily shout, “Go away!”
I want to say something snappy back, but it feels like my throat is lodged with cotton, and the words aren’t coming.
I wait for my friend to get up and answer the door. When she doesn’t, I knock again, this time more insistently.
I hear a groan. “Someone better have died for you to be waking me at this hour.” Sybil’s words carry through the wall.
I lean my forehead against her door. “They have.” My voice comes out softer and hoarser than I imagined. I close my eyes to fight off the images pressing forward in my mind.
There’s a long silence, and I almost think Sybil’s fallen back asleep when I hear the rustle of blankets.
Seconds after I straighten, the door swings open and a bleary-eyed Sybil is squinting at me.
“Selene,” she says, frowning, “what’s going on?”
Keep it together. Keep it together.
“It’s a long story,” I whisper. “Can Nero and I crash in your room for a few hours?”
“You never need to ask,” she says, grabbing my wrist and dragging me inside. She holds the door long enough for Nero to slink in behind me.
The window is open, and her familiar’s perch is empty. I let out a relieved breath at the sight; I don’t want to be dealing with my familiar trying to eat her familiar on top of everything else.
“Need some clothes?” she asks.
“Please,” I say as, next to me, Nero noses the plants that seem to explode from every nook and cranny of my friend’s room.
Sybil riffles through her dresser before pulling out stretchy pants and a T-shirt.
I remove my towel and hang it up, then tug on the clothes. They’re soft and smell like my friend, and once I have them on, I collapse onto her bed.